To Persopolis and Back
by lastpaperbender
Summary: The campaigns of King Jasson the Conquerer, Emry of Haryse, et al; dedicated to Rachel :-) please R & R
1. Chapter 1

Green branches waved across his vision and the clamor of lutes and tambourines and singing rose above the cheers and cries of the people of Corus as Lord Emry rode down the Royal Way towards the palace. He squinted into the sun as he watched the celebrations, allowing himself a small, amused smile. He doubted that these people would be so joyous if they had been in the front lines of the battle a few days ago in the hill country to the East--but for now, it pleased them to call Emry of Haryse a hero, and the man in question was not especially inclined to disabuse them of their notions. No women threw flowers or tokens down at him though, he noticed, but instead saved their trinkets for the two young knights behind him, Roald of Conté and Gareth the Younger of Naxen. Although he was still a handsome man, at 45 years Emry was too old to be winning hearts. Not that he was much disposed to such romantic ideas anyway--six months away at war had made him all the more eager for the company of his wife and children. Emry gave a low chuckle, smiling broadly as his faithful gelding plodded patiently through the crowded way to the palace.  
  
"Glad to be home, sir?" The general looked over to see a reserved smile crossing the face of Prince Roald, who had drawn abreast of him.  
  
"Indeed, Highness," Emry replied. "As glad as you and Gareth are, no doubt."  
  
The Prince nodded slowly. "We shall all enjoy a respite from the war, however brief," he said, deftly catching a wreath of field flowers that someone had thrown down to him.  
  
"And your father will be glad to know that the Hill Country is now legitimately a part of Tortall."   
  
Roald did not miss the barb in the general's words; his dark brows furled for a moment over his vivid eyes, then smoothed. "You're right--every new territory you conquer adds to both his kingdom and his pleasure." Emry nodded. He and Roald always knew where they stood. "There's something inherently disappointing about success," the general remarked after a moment with a faint sigh. "Every time the front moves, you wonder, 'How much suffering is this dirt worth? How many lives will this bit of land cost?' And every time, it's too much."  
  
"Somehow, you and father always manage to live with the price."  
  
Emry winced inwardly--he had deserved that. "Yes. There's little else we can do." He turned a sharp glance upon the prince. "Don't forget--all your father and I have conquered today you will rule tomorrow."  
  
Roald cast his glance downward, dusky color rising to his face. "I won't forget."  
  
*****  
  
Jasson the king delicately spat out a pomegranate seed into a dish in his cupped hand, and watched the soft plume of the fountain catch the slanted light of late morning. He brushed his disheveled auburn hair back from his face, and looked down again at the scrap of vellum he held in his lap: a map of Tortall and the surrounding lands, wrinkled and stained from much handling. He ran his finger down the right half of the paper, tracing the borders of Fief Tirragen and small, spidery, browning words, "Hill Country." The words filled him with an intense need, a desire he could not put words to.   
  
"Do you hear it?" His wife, Noira, swept up behind him and leaned over to plant a kiss on the crown of his head. "Lord Emry has returned, and our son with him."  
  
Jasson's patrician face beamed with joy. "He has won!" he shouted, impulsively catching the queen up in his arms and spinning her around once. "Emry has won me the Hill Country!" He released her his somewhat bewildered wife, snatched up the map from the table where he had dropped it, and walked with long strides into his study, where he took up a quill and drew a thick line along the Tusaine border with great satisfaction.   
  
"Sewell!" he called to attendant. "Go tell the Head Cook that the feast for tonight will commence just past sundown!" Sewell bowed politely and slipped out of the room, thankful that the Head Cook had planned ahead for Lord Emry's arrival and for the king's caprices.  
  
*****  
  
"Papa!" Lord Emry's mail coif chimed faintly as he wrenched his head around, a little smile on his lips. His youngest daughter, Marian, a lively girl of six with her mother's tumbling, oak-gold hair, came flying through the clusters of startled court ladies and lords, and threw herself at her father with the wild energy of bird. Emry caught her up in his arms, grinning broadly, and carried her back to his daughters' red-faced and panting nurse. "Here's your little fugitive," he told the woman with a laugh.  
  
"Father, you're back," came a little voice from behind the nurse's skirts. His other daughter, the wide-eyed, solemn Irena, stepped forward, more reserved than her sister. "I am indeed," he said absently, setting the giggling Marian down. "Here, now go with your nurse…I shall be back by-and-by, but I must go speak with the King now."  
  
Irena nodded gravely. "Come on Marian," she said, taking her younger sister firmly in hand. Emry watched them retreat down the corridors with their nurse, then set out for the king's quarters.   
  
*****  
  
Jasson had just finished belting his soft gray surcoat over a white tunic when he heard a polite rap at the door."Enter," he said, adjusting a thin circlet of gold around his forehead, the object he had substituted for a formal crown. The door opened, and Emry of Haryse, austere and dignified even in his battered chain mail, entered the room, bowing his head respectfully as he drew near. Although the knight was two years younger than his friend and king, Emry's hair had already faded to the color of frost, and gleamed like silver in the light that came through the windows. Clean-shaven and with shrewd gray-green eyes, Emry had an altogether wintry appearance that belied his thoughtful and compassionate nature.  
  
"You may mark off everything to the west of Lake Tirragen if you'd like, your Majesty," he said quietly, easing the leather gauntlets from his arms and pulling them off slowly. "The hillmen and their allies should not give us trouble for some time to come, by my reckoning."  
  
Jasson grinned broadly, and swept his general into a bear-hug. "Well done, Emry! Truly you are one of the greatest generals of all time!" he exclaimed, not noticing the other man's somewhat pinched expression. With great delicacy, Emry removed himself from the king's embrace, and began untangling his mail coif from his hair. "The Hill Country is yours, Majesty--it is the last territory I can offer you."  
  
"The last territory? You underestimate yourself, old friend!" Jasson was leaning over the map, so he missed the look of dread that crossed his general's face. "Neither of us are old yet, and we still have the whole of the Southern Desert before us!" He turned to his friend. "I know you were never one to rest on your laurels, Emry," he said, "but you must allow us to hold a feast in your honor this evening."  
  
"I could scarcely refuse you, Majesty," the silver-haired man said wryly. The king chuckled. "Very good. You shall be seated at my right hand--now go make yourself presentable." 


	2. Chapter 2

"Lianne! Lianne, you come running right back here, or I'll tell his Grace, your father!" Lady Enris's slightly shrill voice was barely audible from the hill on which the Duke of Naxen's daughter stood paused, black hair shining with a faintly blue cast where it had come free of her coif. A breath of wind blew the white linen from her head and sent it billowing gracefully away like a sail, to Lianne's delight. Lady Enris turned bright red when she saw the headdress flapping down the hillside, catching occasionally on stalks of high grass. "Is this how you show your gratitude?" the stout woman rasped. "That coif cost your father--"  
  
But the Duke's daughter was not listening; already she was dancing away over the hillside, toward the bluffs that hung over the River Olorun which poured into a valley where the capital of Corus was situated. She kicked off the expensive satin slippers her maids had shod her in as she ran, and heard a despairing wail from lady Enris a minute later. But the girl had already far outdistanced the portly older woman who had been appointed her governess; Lianne was not usually so inclined to disobedience or wildness, but this gambol over the hill would be her last such freedom for some time--she was going down to Corus to spend the summer at the palace, refining her courtly skills and visiting with her father and brother Gareth. The latter prospect she was pleased about; the former, however, brought mixed feelings of resignation and regret. And so she had decided to run free while she could, when Lady Enris was escorting her to Corus and could not keep up with her.  
  
The ground she was running on grew steadily steeper beneath Lianne's feet, until at last she reached the crest of the ridge, and looked down at the gleaming form of Corus below her. For a moment she forgot her ducal dignity and gawked like any country bumpkin at the sight: the white sprawl of the palace, with a great golden dome gleaming in its midst, then the outer walls, then the somewhat less glorious clusters of common buildings.  
  
Then Lady Enris's hand was heavy on her shoulder, tugging her around. "You wicked, wild girl!" Lianne's governess panted, and slapped the Duke's daughter in the face. Lianne took the blow in silence, her joy undiminished--her father was a firm believer in the saying "spare the rod and spoil the child," and Lady Enris had full disciplinary rights. The governess's temper cooled as she hauled her charge back down the hill to where their small train waited for them, and handed Lianne over to the bevy of handmaids who had come with them. One girl looked sadly at the slippers the Duke's daughter had ruined, and bore them away; Lianne's friend, a lively young woman named Gwen Alarch who had come in their employ from Naxen, smiled wickedly as she helped Lianne take off the dirt-streaked traveling dress and put on a clean, light-blue kirtle. "Eh, how was yuir little romp, then?" she asked with her broad country accent. The Duke's daughter laughed a little. "Good, very good," she said. "And if I have anything to say about it, not my last." Gwen shook her head, amused by her mistress's fancies, and set about to brushing and braiding Lianne's glossy black hair, knowing full well that Lady Enris would be highly displeased if her charge arrived at the palace utterly unpresentable.  
  
*****  
  
Gareth of Naxen wearily swung his leg out of the saddle and dismounted, losing his balance momentarily as his feet hit the ground.  
  
"A little saddle-sore, Gary?" Roald asked, mouth slightly quirked. Then the prince grimaced. "That makes two of us." He dismounted as shakily as his friend had.  
  
"I fear our legs will be stuck like this forever," Gary complained with a laugh, wiping a slick of sweat from his dull brown hair. He looked up into his friend's face. "What did our General Haryse have to say to you?"  
  
The amusement went out of Roald's eyes, replaced by a haunted look.  
  
"If it's nothing personal...?" Gary amended.  
  
Roald sighed. "Oh, just kingdoms, kingship, that sort of thing," he said dryly. But the previous moment's levity was gone. Gary was about to say something more, when a flurry of movement on the other side of the courtyard caught his eye. A small party had just arrived, and his heart leapt when he saw the colors of his own Naxen carried by the lead horseman. He seized the nearest groom the shoulder and thrust his horse's reins into the man's hands, then ran full-tilt across the courtyard to where the newcomers had gathered.  
  
"Gary!"   
  
Lianne laughed as she vaulted out of the carriage, over the arms of the dismayed grooms who had come to assist her and Lady Enris, and threw herself at her brother. His fine silk shirt was damp and redolent of sweat and horse-stink, but she was so glad to see him that she did not mind--she had not seen him since the past Midwinter, and even then only briefly, for he had been busy attending his knight-master, Sir Jakome of Meron. She threaded her arm around his and walked him away from the bustle of grooms helping Lady Enris and the handmaids down from their mounts. "Mithros, but it's good to see you," she told him, smiling. "Even if you do smell horrible."   
  
*****  
  
The soft chime of silverware and fine crystal and china, a sound Emry always associated with the Corus palace, sounded about the dining table as the nobles of their court and their ladies took their places. The knight-general held his wife Abella's hand as she clumsily lowered her heavy body, swollen in the late stages of her pregnancy, into her seat. Her wrist in his grasp was slender as a deer's leg-bone, for Abella had always been a slender woman--all of their children had come hard into the world through her narrow hips, alive and whole thanks only to the skill of the palace's chief healer, Duke Luzin of Queenscove. She gave him a tight smile of thanks when she was comfortably seated, and Emry took his seat beside her.  
  
A small group of musicians in one corner of the great hall filled the air with subtle music, which the Lord of Haryse listened to with an attentive and well-trained ear while observing the flowing procession of nobles as they came to make their obeisances to the King and Queen before the high table. A small flurry of movement caught his eyes at the darkened entrance to the hall--the pages fooling about, impatient to begin serving the many guests at tonight's banquet. Emry's mouth quirked in an ironic smile--doubtless young Galen was beside himself even now, fretting that he was two years too young to be included among the serving pages. The Lord of Haryse wondered briefly how his son had settled into the palace life--he had not seen the boy since Galen had enrolled, nearly a season ago.  
  
The milling pages suddenly parted hastily, forming the barest of rows as two young men--Prince Roald and Gareth of Naxen, the general saw--came into the room. Emry smiled; judging from the barely-suppressed grins on the youths' faces, the Prince and the Duke's son were not so long out of boyhood themselves. Emry took a judicious sip from his wine glass--a fine, dry white from Port Legann--and studied his wife's face. It had been so long since he had seen Abella, he'd almost forgotten what she looked like; her face was a little older than he remembered it, although her dark gold hair hid the fine strands of silver well; the great bulk of their growing child looked strange on her willowy frame; the glow of motherhood had faded in the lateness of her pregnancy, and her face wore an expression of pain and weariness. Then Abella lifted her eyes from her plate, and their gazes met for a long moment; they looked at each other as they had when they were young, unmarried, in love. Emry took her bird-fingers in his own callused ones.  
  
"I can't tell you how good it is to see you," he said in a low voice.  
  
She smiled, years lifting from her face. "Neither can I." She reached up, and ran her finger along his jaw line. "You have a new scar," she said. "It must have been a hard campaign."  
  
He touched the mark self-consciously. "The hill-folk fight hand-to-hand, and they're good at it. I got off easy, with just a scar--they killed any number of good soldiers there." He looked down at her belly. "Our child cannot have been easy on you."  
  
She shrugged, looking away. "We've both had our burdens to bear." Then she smiled, and intertwined her fingers with his. Neither of them said anything more, but silently enjoyed being in each other's presence, however briefly.  
  
The rest of the meal went uninterrupted, and Emry and Abella continued their conversation between the courses. The Lord of Haryse, in his usual frugal manner, ate lightly, and did not indulge in wine to the extent that some of the other Lords, Dukes and Barons who were at the feast did. Abella returned to her chambers after the meal had finished, pleading a sore back from the weight of their growing child, leaving Emry on his own as the great throng of people moved from the great hall to the vast, candle-lit room where the dancing was to be held.   
  
Emry still had trouble believing that this grand event was being held in his honor--while the victory in the Hill-Country had been a welcome respite after months of fighting, but the larger conflict was far from over; in fact, it would not end until the kingdom of Tortall encompassed everything from the mountains to the north to the River Drell in the east and the Inland Sea to the south, if then. The Lord of Haryse sighed, and stopped trying to justify this enormous expenditure of time and material for his sake.  
  
He left the dinner and dancing as early that night as could be considered decent, and hummed a part of a corrante as he came up the hallway, remarkably in tune for someone who'd had little to no musical training.  
  
"My Lord Emry?" A page tapped his elbow politely. "Your quarters have been set up in the other wing. These are the women's quarters."  
  
It took the general a moment to realize he had been headed towards the room where Abella slept in his absence. "Of course," he murmured, embarrassed. "Thank you, page." The boy nodded, and stepped aside as Emry corrected his course to go up the adjacent hallway. Eventually he found the door which bore a placard with his name on it, and went in. The palace servants had already put his few articles in the room, and it was not long before he had turned down the elaborate bedspread, lain down on the cool pallet, and fallen into a well-deserved sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

"So, that's little Lianne?" Roald nodded in the direction of the black-haired girl sitting in the midst of the daughters of the courtiers. "You didn't present me earlier--I should be offended."  
  
Gary grinned sheepishly. "Please pardon the oversight, Highness--it's just that we hadn't seen each other since I left for the Hill-Country."  
  
"I know, Gary; I was only joking. Still, she's grown up hasn't she?"  
  
The brown-haired boy looked over at his younger sister, trying to see what his friend meant. "I hadn't thought about it--she looks about the same to me; a little taller, maybe."  
  
"How old is she now?"  
  
"Let me think--she'll be 17 just past Midwinter. It always annoyed her when we put her birthday presents and her Midwinter presents together."  
  
"Is she here to stay, then?"  
  
"That's what father said--he wants her to enter into court life, and all that. Poor Lia--she always hated that sort of thing."  
  
Roald sipped from his waterglass--he did not particularly care for wine--and continued to watch Lianne in silence. Whatever Gary said, he could see that changes a few seasons had wrought: her face had lost the roundness of girlhood, and her slim, boyish figure had begun to fill out; beneath her coif, Roald could see that her maids had pinned her hair up in a woman's braid. He also noticed that the eyes of a number of other young men were upon her as well, and the realization filled him with an unexpected sense of possessiveness and insecurity. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gary looking at him curiously, and quickly turned his attention back to dinner.  
  
*****  
  
"Who is that, sitting next to my brother?" Lianne quietly asked the girl sitting next to her. The young woman, the flaxen-haired daughter of the Lord of Maven, looked, then snickered unpleasantly. "You _are_ new, aren't you? Mithros...that's Prince Roald!"  
  
Lianne flushed, and laughed uneasily. "I'm greener than I thought," she said as gracefully as she could. She was surprised that she hadn't recognized her childhood playmate, but the years had worked many changes upon his face. Beneath the thick, neatly-trimmed beard, she decided, his face had grown harder, more angular; of course, she couldn't see him well from this distance. The rest of the meal was spent in uncomfortable silence; Lianne silently blessed the pages who came to clear the dishes and announced that the young women should proceed to the great hall for after-dinner dancing. She trailed a short distance behind her peers, somewhat at a loss for what to do.  
  
"Lianne," came a deep, butter-rich voice from behind her. "It's been a long time."  
  
She whirled around, startled, and looked up into Prince Roald's face. She felt her mouth working, but no words came. Dusky color rose to Roald's high cheekbones. "Pardon me," he said, backing up a short ways and giving her a low bow. "I should not have expected you to have remembered me after all this time."  
  
"No," she rasped after a moment, recovering her voice. "No, I do remember you, your Highness." She returned his bow with an awkward curtsey, and they stood for what seemed like an eternity in silence. The prince's intensely blue eyes held hers, making her head ache slightly. "Excuse me, do you know where my brother is?" she asked after a moment, at a loss for what else to say. "I haven't seen him for more than ten minutes since I've been here."  
  
"I'll take you to him, Lady," the prince answered graciously, surprising Lianne by taking her arm. His elbow hooked around hers felt uncomfortably personal, yet at the same time exhilarating; she knew she was blushing furiously, and pressed her hand to one hot cheek. Gary was sitting by one of the great, stained-glass windows in the hall, watching the swirling dancers; he smiled warmly as he saw his sister and his closest friend approaching. "Are you enjoying the feast?" he asked, grinning.  
  
"It's all a bit overwhelming," she admitted, carefully withdrawing her arm from Roald's; the prince seemed to take the hint, and drew back a little as Lianne sat down beside her brother. "His Highness was gracious enough to escort me here, though."  
  
The corners of Gary's mouth turned down with amusement. "Ah, Roald: always the model of chivalry. Why, when we were still in training, it was enough to turn an honest page's stomach!"   
  
Roald smiled indulgently. "Say what you will, Gary--I still got higher marks than you."  
  
Gary gave a martyred sigh, and turned his attention to his sister. "I'm sorry, Lia--I forgot that you're not used to court ways yet. You'll become accustomed to them though. Just wait until Midwinter! The celebrations they hold here in Corus would put even this feast to shame." He sipped from his wineglass. "So what have you been doing with yourself, little sister? I haven't seen you in months."  
  
She shrugged. "Nothing that compares with what you've been doing--unless you consider embroidery and working through "The Book of Courtly Dances" as exciting as battle and adventure in the Hill-Country."  
  
"Hmm." A mischievous look crossed her brother's face. "You hear that, Roald? She says she's been studying courtly dances! I say we give her a final test--there's a morris dance next." Before Lianne could blink, her brother has whisked her out into the swirls of people with Roald as her partner. As the music began, she looked into the face of her companion, and saw that he was a taken aback as she was. "Well, then," she said with as much grace as she could muster, and began moving. 


	4. Chapter 4

While the court at Corus bustled about with preparations for the Midwinter festivities, Lord Emry bowed out of the general commotion and enjoyed a well-deserved respite from war. While he was respected--and at time nearly revered--for his accomplishments to the West, he found that he had returned as something of a stranger. In his few days of quiet here, he had learned from the King that many of his old comrades-in-arms were away fighting, or had been killed; it made Emry keenly aware of his own mortality and vulnerability--having finished with them, would the war claim his life next?  
  
"Sir Emry," came a small, respectful voice. A fair-haired page bowed gracefully, then flung himself into the general's arms. Emry felt something stinging in the corners of his eyes as he embraced his son and eldest child. "Galen," he said quietly, "I'm glad to see you." He held the boy at arm's length to get a good look at him. Jasson had often remarked that Galen was like a small, youthful version of his father, and Emry could see what he meant: the searching brown eyes and golden hair were Abella's, but the angles and planes of the face, the build of the young body, were all inherited from the Lord of Haryse.  
  
"Have you been minding your mother and teachers?" he asked, at a loss for what else to say. The boy nodded eagerly. "Our archery teacher says I'm a good shot with a short bow--and after Midwinter I'm to start practicing with a staff."  
  
Emry nodded approvingly, and listened to what his son had to say about his masters. Jasson has said that father and son looked alike, but in terms of interests, they had little in common. Galen's soliloquy was interrupted by a loud bell that Emry remembered all too well. "Off you go," he said to Galen affectionately, and watched as the boy disappeared down one of the corridors.  
  
"Catching up on what you've missed?" came an amused voice from behind him. Emry smiled, and moved over to make room for the prince. "As you have as well, I imagine." Roald nodded. "Father has seen to it that I'm informed of everything that's taken place in my absence, right down to the food and provisions that have been ordered for Midwinter."  
  
The Lord of Haryse winced sympathetically--he too was familiar with how exacting the King could be. "And for all of that," Roald continued darkly, "he didn't even seem particularly happy to see me."  
  
"Don't think too much of it," Emry advised gently. "Your father's got a lot on his mind." Roald sighed, and the knight could tell that his young protégé was brooding about it still. Roald had always been sensitive; Jasson's inattentiveness and distracted ambition had made their mark upon his son. It was the delicate position that nearly every prince or heir found themselves in at some point. "Norwin and Timandra have a son now, did you hear?" Roald asked, coming out of his reverie. "My nephew, Roger." The prince smiled slightly seeing Emry's moue of distaste. Although Norwin of Conté, Jasson's second son, was only two years younger than Roald, he had married at a young age to the ingenuous and--Emry thought--somewhat air-headed Timandra of Hollyrose. Norwin enjoyed nothing more than the sensation he had created with his storybook romance, and cared more about maintaining the story of his marriage than he ever had for his young and girlish wife.  
  
"No doubt all I shall hear from father while I'm here is 'Why haven't you found a wife yet?' and 'It's high time you started courting someone!' Especially since it's the winter social season." Roald fidgeted with the him of his tunic. "I almost wish the battle in the Hill Country had kept up longer, if only so that I could be there instead of here."  
  
Emry frowned, somewhat annoyed by the prince's petulance. "I hate to say it, but your father most probably has a point," he said. Roald scowled, and turned away. "No, listen to me," Emry continued. "These are dangerous times we live in--if something happens to you, then what?"  
  
The prince shrugged. "Norwin becomes the heir, and Roger after him."  
  
The Lord of Haryse nodded. "Exactly. I say this as a friend and teacher Roald: It would be a terrible day for Tortall if Norwin came to power. You know this as well as I do." He could see Roald's inner struggle mirrored on his face: a wish to not speak ill of his brother warring with his own intense dislike of Norwin. Emry sighed. "I won't say anything more of it, Roald--but I don't want to see you come to grief."  
  
"What do you think of Lianne of Naxen?"  
  
The question caught Emry completely off guard. "What?"  
  
"Lianne--Gary's sister. She's __, and arrived here the other day."  
  
"I could hardly say, I haven't been introduced to her yet," the older knight answered cautiously. "What do you think of her?"  
  
Roald blinked, not expecting a question in return. "I haven't seen her in so long," he fumbled. "But I remember her well from when we were young together. Perhaps with time..." He shrugged. "She has grown into quite a pretty thing--and her lineage is good enough to please Father..."  
  
"That's not what I was asking, Roald."  
  
The prince smiled, chastised. "I'm sorry, Emry--I should know better than to try to dissemble with you. I don't know what I think of her, though; it's been a long time, and we've both changed."  
  
Emry nodded. "Well, there's no need to hurry right no. We're home and, Gods willing, not returning to the battlefield any time soon. And," he added with a sly look, "I believe the Midwinter festivities will be upon us soon?  
  
*****  
  
Far to the south, in the squat wilderness citadel of Persopolis, Khalid ibn Yasim watched the sun sink into the desert sands--appropriately enough, from the abandoned Sunset Room--and pondered the fate of the Bazhir people. It had been decided by the many tribal elders gathered in the city that Rahim ibn Yunis had to die; that his son, Majid, should take his place; and that Khalid was the only person trustworthy enough to do the deed. He would be reviled for it, of course--the Bazhir tribesman could never understand why their acknowledged leader and defender must be gotten out of the way and replaced with someone more eager to submit to the Northern interlopers who would come some day soon. The truth would only scatter the tribes further. Now word had come of the Northern victory in the Hill Country, and Khalid had run out of time. His life and his people both tottered at the edge of a precipice. The desert would surely be the next prize the Northern king set his sights upon--but was killing Rahim that only way to preserve the Bazhir? The elders who had called for this dark act argued that the leader's arrogance and tenacity would be there undoing: if the Bazhir resisted tooth and nail, the Northerners would crush every last vestige of their people to ensure compliance. But if a more amenable and biddable leader--Majid, for example--offered them control over the desert, the Northerners would take a more lenient stance in order to preserve the goodwill of the contract.  
  
One way or another, the desert would fall to the Northern armies; but Khalid had trouble believing that the path to preservation lay in getting one stubborn leader out of the way. There was no way to guarantee Majid's cooperation, either. For ten years, Khalid had been the boy's tutor and confidante, and he knew better than anyone that Majid liked to have his own way with things; if too much pressure were put on him, he might balk at the elders' wishes and refuse to sign a peace treaty out of spite. Khalid sighed; he had devoted the last decade of his life to the boy, cultivating him and teaching him to be the sort of just and moral person his father was not; but ultimately he had the feeling that Majid had slipped from his clutches, had gone wrong somehow. His father's pride and ambition ran too strongly in his veins.  
  
And so it comes to me, Khalid thought, watching the last rays of the sun. The dying light gleamed off of something black, far away. The Black City...oh Gods. I had forgotten. A new worry made his stomach turn over. What will the Northerners do if they find it? What could they unleash, all unknowing? He cast his gaze downward, at the tiled floor. Night-One, Brightly-Burning One, where are you? You could take at least one fear from my mind. The Black City settled it, though--the Bazhir must win the right to guard the Black City from the Northerners, and; that duty, at least, should not fall into foreign hands--and the only way to win that right would be to help the Northerners when they came.  
  
Gods, I pray to you that I am right in what I am about to do, and that you have not led my thoughts astray. Khalid sent the thought skyward as the last light of day winked below the sand, and went to find his weapon. 


	5. Chapter 5

Midwinter morning found Prince Roald cold, hungry, and deeply unhappy. Word had come in the night that the leader of the Bazhir in Persopolis had been assassinated--the Great Southern Desert was ripe for conquest, and Jasson didn't intend to waste a moment of his time. The Queen had prevailed upon her husband to observe Midwinter, out of respect for the Gods, but Jasson meant for his troops to leave the day after. Roald's life had been thrown into chaos yet again.  
  
As the prince rose to bathe and dress himself for the celebrations of the day, he speculated on the turmoil that must be going on around the court, even at this early hour. When he was clean, he slipped on a plain tunic of dark wool, to protect against that cold, then trousers and boots, and went out in search of anything to salve his inner hurts.  
  
"Roald!" Gary's alarmed voice grated in his ears. "Did you hear? I couldn't believe it."  
  
"I heard," the prince said quietly, turning to face his friend. The brown-haired knight inhaled sharply. "It's true, then?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
They walked a short ways in silence, still reeling form the shock of their situation; they came out into one of the palace's many courtyards. As if to mark the changing times, the unseasonable warmth had broken, and frost now crunched under their feet. "What are we doing, Gary?" the prince asked heavily after a moment, voice raw with emotions too long held back.  
  
"I--I don't know," his friend answered, unsettled by the bluntness and desperation of the question.  
  
"I mean, are we to do this sort of thing all through our lives, without a moment of peace?" Gary was silent, still taken aback by this outburst. "I have nothing but love and respect for my father," Roald continued, "but this war-mongering, this greed for land and fame--it's nothing short of insane! Where will it ever end?"  
  
His tirade was cut short by the sound of footsteps behind them. "Gary! Is it tr--your Highness!" Lianne came to an abrupt halt beside a bare bush, flushing crimson, and made an awkward curtsey while trying to conceal her body with her unbound tresses--she was wearing a nightgown which, while modest enough, was still only a nightgown. Roald froze as well, caught between the previous moment's passion, amusement at her discomfiture, and the unexpected sensation of real desire. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were with someone--I'll come back later."  
  
"No, don't go," the brown-haired knight said, using his sister's faux pas to relieve the tension of the situation. "Please, sit down--we're all friends here." Lianne took a few hesitant forward, then slid onto the bench beside her brother. "Lianne," he said gently. "You're crying."  
  
She made a small, shuddering sound, and turned her pink face away for a moment, wiping her tears. "I'm sorry, Gary," she rasped. "I know it's childish, I just--I wish--"  
  
Her brother peered into her face, not understanding. "I've been a very inconsiderate brother, haven't I? Hang on, I'll get you a cloak so you don't catch cold." He was up and gone before she could speak. Roald shifted from foot to foot where he was standing--he couldn't remember ever being in a situation more awkward than this one. "I'm sorry to take your brother from you, lady," he said quietly; he couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow responsible for his father's orders.  
  
"There is nothing you need to apologize for," she replied, wiping a few tears with the heel of her hand. Her dark eyes were bloodshot as she looked up at him, then away again. There seemed to be something she desperately wanted to say, but could not bring herself to say it to him--the prince of Tortall, the man who had been the boy she remembered. "I hope you won't think ill of me for coming apart like this," she said after a moment, collecting herself.  
  
"I never shall," he said quietly. "I can see that you care for a brother a great deal--I only wish that I too had someone at home who cared so deeply for my well-being."  
  
She frowned, not expecting what he had said; Roald could almost see her mind working to deduce the feeling behind his words. "I'm sorry," she said, surprising him with candor of her own. "I thought a prince, of all the people in this war, would have someone or something worth coming home for."  
  
Roald smiled ironically, and shook his head. "No. Someday, though, perhaps I shall."  
  
"I wish I could be of more help--somehow I don't think courtly dances will be of much use to anyone, though."  
  
"They're good for comfort, though--it's good to forget about the war, at least for a little while." He glanced at her sidelong. "I hope I didn't annoy you the other night by dancing with you."  
  
She turned her head to him, frowning slightly. "It's hardly my place to be annoyed, Highness." She paused, realizing he had wanted a serious answer. "No--I really did enjoy it, even if it seemed I didn't. I haven't had many partners as graceful as you are, or as considerate." She pulled back her black locks in silence, twisting them into a loose knot to keep them out of her face. "For what it's worth," she said at length, "I shall be sorry when you go."  
  
He looked at her, mystified but pleased.  
  
"I don't know what I'll do by myself--I don't seem to get along with the other noble daughters my age; I'm not very like them."  
  
"I shouldn't like you half as well if you were," Roald said. Lianne looked at him wryly. "They'd be offended to no end if they heard you say that." She paused. "You do like me, though?"  
  
He flushed slightly. "Yes, I do--why wouldn't I?"  
  
"I couldn't tell what you were thinking during the feast that night, when you asked if I remembered you."  
  
"Well, it seems like half a lifetime ago when I last saw you--I think I was 15, and you were about 10. We were looking over the parapets, and Gary threatened to dangle you over the edge, you were such a little thing..."  
  
"...and you told him to stop it. Yes, I remember." She nodded, and sighed. "I don't think things will ever be quite that simple again."  
  
"No."  
  
"But the three of us are still here--you and Gary and me. Surely that's something."  
  
He nodded, smiling gently. "It is."  
  
"I hope my brother come back safely—and I hope you do too. If you don't, I really shall be alone here."  
  
Roald felt a sort of fierce tenderness welling inside of him; involuntarily, he reached up and touched her face with his fingers--she was surprised, but did not pull away. "You're the first person who's wished me well in this," he observed. "All the soldiers seem to have their sweethearts to return to--I don't suppose...would it be to much to ask...?"  
  
Lianne's dark eyes searched his own. Then she laughed a little. "It's an odd question--but yes, I'll be your sweetheart, as much as a noble can be, at least. I'll wait for you, and hope for you." She sighed. "We'd better keep it to ourselves, though. You know how word gets around." The prince nodded mutely, too overwhelmed with conflicting emotions to answer. Lianne rose from the bench and brushed the frost from her nightgown. "I'd better go, or I'll catch it from Lady Enris," she said, "but will I see you tonight at Midwinter?"  
  
He took her hands. "Of course." She leaned forward awkwardly, and planted a light kiss high on his forehead. "Goodbye, until then." 


End file.
